


Catholic Girls Start Much Too Late

by MJ (mjr91)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Harry Potter References, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 16:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11581833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjr91/pseuds/MJ
Summary: During a meeting in the SVU bullpen, Barba learns some interesting things about his favorite Catholic detective's days in school.





	Catholic Girls Start Much Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> If this isn't 500 for the pairing, it's 501 or 502, so yay.
> 
> I couldn't help this. I just couldn't. Apologies to JKR, Billy Joel, Saint Kilda, everyone.

Barba enters the SVU bullpen while the detectives are grousing over the case in question, a boy assaulted at a Catholic boarding school in the city. Barba wonders, mostly, why there’s any kind of private boarding school in Manhattan, since almost all the children are local and the housing takes up a chunk of prime Upper West Side real estate. To a lesser degree, he wonders if Detective Carisi is all right – he’s well aware that Carisi is a devout Catholic and that the man’s struggled with some of the SVU cases that have involved the Church or its members. It doesn’t occupy a large place in his brain because he knows Carisi is a competent cop and can take care of himself, and even more because one of Barba’s closest friends, Olivia Benson, is a professional mother hen to her detectives; if anyone there is having a problem and she knows it, she’ll fix it.

Olivia’s son Noah, Barba thinks tangentially, possibly will be the best-adjusted child who will ever live. If Liv doesn’t turn into a helicopter mother or a tiger mom.

When his ears finally register the actual words the detectives are saying, however, it’s clear that Carisi is taking things in stride. “Yeah, nuns. Especially some of the old, crabby ones. A kid’s gotta watch out for a nun who wears one of those giant rosaries as a belt. That thing’s an even deadlier weapon than a ruler.”

“First-hand knowledge?” That, naturally, was Fin.

“Nah,” Carisi chuckles back. “I went to a kind of weird progressive Catholic school. Saint Kilda’s. No rosary bashing. Not enough elderly nuns.”

“Too bad,” Fin cracks. “I’d ‘a liked to see you up against some nun using a rosary like a martial arts weapon.” So would Barba, now that the image comes to mind. But he’s more distracted by the fact of Saint Kilda’s School. Barba knows about Saint Kilda’s. Not because he’s Catholic. But because Saint Kilda’s, if it’s the one he thinks it is – it must be, since Carisi described it as unusual – has a certain reputation to those who are aware of the place. Rafael Barba knows of it.

Barba also knows that if Carisi went to Saint Kilda’s, the Saint Kilda’s he knows, he’ll have to keep his mouth shut tight. No one needs to know what Saint Kilda’s is, or, at least, no one outside of a very small group of people. He might have gone there himself, if his mother hadn’t been dead set against any Catholic school for him. His mother’s family wasn’t quite as devout as people thought. They observed the form enough to avoid notice, but Lucia Barba had her opinions, as had her mother before her.  
Still, Saint Kilda’s. It is a loaded phrase. Barba sets it aside forcefully. Rollins had narrowed down some likely perps for the crime, a few of them senior boys, one a seminarian. Carisi looks okay with that possibility. Barba pulls off his jacket – the air conditioning must be having a work slowdown today – and drapes it over an unoccupied chair as everyone begins a free-for-all.

Barba keeps one eye on Carisi. He could argue it’s because of the Church issue; Barba isn’t all bite, despite the reputation he deliberately has cultivated, and he knows the SVU detectives have caught on to his game, though part of the game is that no one admits that Barba isn’t a cobra – not him, not them. If anything, they talk up his presumed viciousness, and he likes it that way. He could argue to himself, and he does, that it’s because of Saint Kilda’s. He doesn’t argue at all, though it’s the truth, that Dominick Carisi, Jr. is the singularly most beautiful focal point of the room, or that Carisi is the likely reason Barba thinks the air conditioning is failing.

It was bad enough that Carisi was tall, slender, all cheekbones and twinkling eyes. Worse yet that he was despite all appearances a great cop – his talent as an undercover was especially appealing to Barba, who appreciated a good actor. Brains, an offbeat sense of humor, and the damned law degree made Carisi too dangerous to contemplate – the man was hot, talented, and an intellectual equal? He was already honey, and Barba kept finding himself buzzing far too close. But Saint Kilda’s?

Damn it, someone’s written Barba’s online ISO ad for him and turned it into flesh and blood. Forget eHarmony on the one hand, or Grindr on the other – Carisi is now in Barba’s fairy godmother’s book of matches made in heaven. And undoubtedly completely straight (yes, Barba’s heard about Miss 34B; Liv is a friend, and she shares all the funny stuff).  
His eyeing Carisi, however, is either less subtle than he thinks, or the universe hates him, because Carisi manages to see him looking. Carisi isn’t reacting, but you know when someone’s made direct, conscious eye contact. Carisi’s registered him. Shit.

At least Carisi’s still answering questions. “Nah. My school was coed. But it didn’t keep the boys from being boys, if you know what I mean.” No, Barba wasn’t quite sure what he meant.

Carisi kept answering Rollins’ questions. About this, about that. “My school didn’t do that, no. We were progressive, like I said.”

“Whatcha calling progressive?” Rollins asks. “No forced daily Mass? Nuns not wearing habits?”

“Well, we didn’t have forced chapel. And all the teachers weren’t nuns or even clergy, but that’s true at Catholic schools anyway. Not enough nuns and priests to spare. We got plenty of lay teachers. No habits. They were lucky to get the students in uniform. Most of the time, anyway. But we did get taught a lot of non-Catholic stuff. I had a really good comparative religions class. And I didn’t get thrown out for dating the star jock, either.”

“She a tennis champ?” Fin again.

“Nah, he was lousy at tennis. But he got me to try out for basketball. I made it one year, too. What’s the matter, counselor – think I’m too uncoordinated for basketball?” Oh lord, he’s seen Barba’s outright stare.

“Carisi, I’ve seen better coordinated Rock ‘Em, Sock ‘Em Robots. Played by toddlers.” The usual snappy comeback, for which Barba gives himself points. He hasn’t made the slightest reaction to the obvious disclosure, and there’s no need to do so because he’s scoring his point on sarcasm anyway. Fin, on the other hand, has narrowed an eye at Carisi, while Rollins is raising an eyebrow. Liv is shuffling papers, looking down, and apparently trying not to snicker—whether at him or at Carisi, Barba’s not sure.

Saint Kilda’s, eh?

The Universe has handed Rafael Barba a gilt-wrapped package. He has to do something about this. He’s been given two signs in one day. Miss 34B? What Miss 34B? He can make Carisi forget Miss 34B.

“All right, Liv concludes. Rollins, Fin, find me something on one of these people. Carisi, I need you to keep searching through that school database.”

“Don’t just find me something,” Barba calls sharply to Rollins. “Find me something admissible.”

Rollins and Fin grab their things and head out. Liv heads back to her office. Barba looks over at Carisi. “Detective. A word?” Carisi looks up and nods as Barba heads for the conference room, then gets up, unfolding more than simply rising from his chair, and meets him at the door. Barba holds it open for him, then pushes it shut, and drops the blind on the window.

“What’s up, counselor?” Carisi asks, his usual cheerful smirk not fazed.

Barba fixes him with his best “I am killing this witness during cross-examination” stare. “Saint Kilda’s School. You went to Saint Kilda’s.”

“Yeah?”

“There’s no Saint Kilda’s on Staten Island. There’s no Saint Kilda’s in the city. There is a Saint Kilda’s – and it’s a boarding school – in the Irish Catskills over by Saugerties. That Saint Kilda’s?”

Carisi blinks, turns slightly paler than normal. “You know Saint Kilda’s?” His eyes dart back and forth. “No, you’re not a Saint Kilda’s grad. I’d have known if you were a Saint Kilda boy.”

Barba sets his lips together, and manages something like, but not quite exactly, a smirk. “Not Saint Kilda’s. My mother didn’t want me in a religious school. But I spent my last couple of years of high school in Massachusetts.” He flexes his right hand, a slight wriggle at his cuff. There’s something up his sleeve, and Carisi can see the faint outline. “That’s where I won my Harvard scholarships. There’s an old tie-in between Harvard and Ilvermorny.”

“I’d have sworn you were a no-maj.”

“You’d have been wrong.” Barba fixes that look again. “But then, I wouldn’t have made you for a maj either. My father’s side of the family is recent immigrants. My mother’s is from Spain. From very far back. My full name’s Rafael Carlos Barba Lopez.”

Now Carisi looks weak, in the same way one would look weak if their no-maj co-worker suddenly announced they were a Kennedy or Rockefeller cousin. “You’re a Lopez? The Lopez? That Lopez?” Carlos Lopez was a legend among magic users, one of colonial America’s first Aurors.

Barba chuckles. It’s time to let the sufferer off the hook. “Yes, that Lopez. I try not to make a big deal about being part of a first family. We’re only cousins.”  
“Can I still be impressed?”

“I’d prefer it,” Barba smirks back, sliding his wand into his hand. “Showing you mine. You show me yours.” 

Carisi’s comes from inside his waistband. “Oak with dragon’s heartstring.”

“Fitting for a detective.” Barba holds his closer for examination. “Spanish olivewood with unicorn hair.”

“Not phoenix?” Carisi re-holsters his wand. “I’d think you were a phoenix tailfeather kind of guy.”

“Please, no thank you,” Barba laughs. He slides his wand back into his sleeve holster. “So, Saint Kilda’s School for Magical Catholics. Because Ilvermorny is too… whatever.”

Carisi shakes his head. “Well, there was a maj Archbishop who was afraid that good little Catholic maj-users needed to be taught to use magic in the proper way according to his understanding of the Church. And to be kept out of the city so no one would have to clean up after us when we made trouble. MACUSA didn’t make any more noise about it than they did about Rabbi Zauberstein’s yeshiva for the Jewish maj kids back in the Twenties. They’re not exactly Ilvermorny either, but hey, you’ve got John Munch over in your office and I hear he got started at Zauberstein’s school.”

“And expelled,” Barba laughs again. “He refuses to use magic, you know. There’s a conspiracy. Hell, with him, breathing air is a conspiracy. We should still have gills.”

“But the aliens mutated us,” Carisi snerks merrily. “Hey, counselor. Thank you. For coming out, you know. It’s not easy being a maj-user and having to keep quiet about it all the time.”

Now Barba needs to clear his throat. “Speaking of coming out, Detective, what was that about your high school boyfriend?”

“Yeah, Saint Kilda’s is pretty much in line with the other maj schools. Gay, bi kids, no big deal. There are bigger problems to deal with. You only finished at Ilvermorny, I don’t know if you know the whole –“

“My mother,” Barba cuts in, “ran not only a school, but an after school training program in the Bronx for Latino maj youth. Everyone couldn’t afford to get sent to Ilvermorny or Saint Kilda’s from the ground up, if at all. I was lucky to pass the Ilvermorny high school scholarship test. Yes, I learned my maj community manners before I learned my social ones at Harvard. Now, what I was going to ask when you insulted my training, and what I probably shouldn’t bother asking now that you have, was whether you’d like to have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

“Like a date, you mean?”

“Booyah, Fordham Law. I’m trusting my impression that you’re currently single and that the infamous Miss 34B is no longer on your radar.”

“Good impression, Counselor. Call me Sonny, if we’re starting to get personal.”

“I can bring myself to Dominick, if that suits you. Call me Rafael – or I might let you call me by my nickname at Ilvermorny.”

Carisi is agog. “Which is?”

“Valedictorian.” Ah, his snark is released again, and it feels good.

“Fuck you, Counselor.”

“Tomorrow night. If you’re good.”

“Oh, I’m good, all right.”

“The jury demands evidence.”

Carisi spins on his heel, then pins Barba close to the conference room wall, not quite touching him. “If the jury would like… physical evidence… Counselor, there’s going to be plenty.”

Barba looks pleased. “Tomorrow. Don’t make me ‘ascendero’ you… Dominick.”

The detective lets go of the wall. “Wait till tomorrow. I’ll show you some spells the Catholic kids know.”

Barba looks even more pleased, as pleased as if he’s just gotten a guilty verdict in a rape case. “I look forward to it. But I have court after lunch so I need to run. I’ll text you tonight. I’d ask if you like Italian, but…”

“I’m willing to try anything. Any decent Cuban joints? I’ve never had decent Cuban.”

“Some other time,” Barba chuckles. “There’s a great date place in the Village, but if you want even better, I’d have to cook it myself. And I don’t have time to get shopping. So. Tomorrow.” He raises up, plants a fast peck on Carisi’s cheek. He’s out of the conference room and on his way to the elevator as quickly as if he’d spelled himself to it.  
\  
And he’s humming under his breath, which is something he never does, and he’s damned if it isn’t Billy Joel. “Come out, Virginia, don’t let ‘em wait; you Catholic girls start much too late…” He howls to himself, under his breath, at recognizing it, then looks around, praying that he’s not going to have to obfuscate anyone. Rafael Barba never breaks down laughing in sight of anybody – at least not without making them forget it ever happened. “Saint Kilda’s. I’ll be damned.”


End file.
